Some folks will tell you
about the beauty of Eagles soaring,
of great owls of learning,
of proud-chested hawks,
or doves with feathers as soft as velvet
and voices soft as silk
Well, a plague on them
fer an ignorant ilk
Yer crow is yer poet for birds:
it can think on wings,
recite or eat most anything,
or leave the city fer rambling
For the patient ear,
they can even sing
Edgar Poe was close
but close is no cigar,
yer crow is yer finest bird
yer finest bird by far
Comments
Kropotkin38 | March 20, 2010 - 20:42
I like this because I have always had a soft spot for crows. I remember misty days when I was little, long enough ago that the hedgerows were still full of dead elm trees, and the calls of the crows would come across the fields. Yep, I like crows.